


drops of sunlight

by poziomeczka



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Canon, M/M, awful writing, no i mean truly awful writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/pseuds/poziomeczka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TRULY AWFUL ODE TO FRECKLES</p>
            </blockquote>





	drops of sunlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bachaboska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bachaboska/gifts).



He has not paid his new Master that much attention. Lost in his own humiliation and sorrow, owned by yet another pair of Roman hands. They have hardly exchanged more than a couple of words since Esca's addition to the household. 

He is not a good slave, never will be, he knows that and everyone else is at pains of reminding him had he chosen to forget it. Not that he would, for here he is, saved from death and made a ghost. 

Slowly, he realizes that there are worse places he could find himself in. 

Marcus, Esca finds, keeps mostly to himself in his silent brooding. The wound has closed nicely, but he's still in that awkward, frustrating place between pain and recovery, moping around like a wounded bear. And Esca almost allows himself a smile at that. 

He seems embarrassed by his own slave's presence, he shrinks from it almost, reluctant to show him any sign of weakness. Esca in all frankness finds it ludicrous, they have both seen each other at their most vulnerable, he doesn't see the need to deny that. 

Besides, he is just a slave. What should it matter. 

And yet it does somehow. Marcus looks at him, really looks at him, not like one might at a slave, like Esca's opinions matter to him more than anyone else's, like Esca himself matters. Matters more than anything.

They hold each-other's eyes more often than not, Esca's gaze far from servile, defiant and direct and Marcus eyes grow soft under it, fondly amused and there's respect in them and kindness and something that Esca would like to be lust (and hates himself for wanting it so). 

Whatever it may be Marcus never acts upon it and Esca doesn't really know whether he should be relieved or respect the former Centurion all the more for it or cuff him on the side of the head from sheer frustration. The last always remains a most tempting option.

The days are still warm as summer draws to an end, resonant with the heat of days past. Maybe it's that lingering warmth seeping into his back and the back of his thighs from the wall he's leaning his back against, or maybe it's the fact that the wine they have both been drinking was nowhere near watered enough. The sun is setting and Marcus is getting ready for bed, weary from the midday hunt. He always insists on doing it by himself and Esca is not the one to question. 

It's probably the wine or the tiredness setting deep in Marcus's bones that makes him drop his guard, blissfully unaware of Esca's presence. 

He removes his tunic, the rough material caressing his back almost longingly in one smooth motion and Esca can't help himself but stare. And it's the wine. He's sure it's the wine.  
The sunset plays with the planes of Marcus's muscles back, flickering as his master stretches all long and languid. He had always known the Roman to be a handsome man, reminiscent of the Roman statues of worship that his people seemed so keen on building everywhere. It was a mere observation, of hardly any significance to Esca. 

He can't bring himself to look away, like he should. Trespassing on this intimate moment. 

He has grown to know the nooks and corners of Marcus's body better than his own as he nursed the man through his sickness, but his touch always remained fast, efficient and impersonal, eyes averted, trying to spare Marcus that little ounce of shame he could. 

It's something else entirely that catches his eye, making heat spread through his chest like good thick mead. His eyes go wide and dark as he stares at Marcus's broad back. 

There are hundreds of them, clustered, huddled together on his shoulders some of them scattered right across his back and shoulder blades, dotting lovingly at the line of his master's spine, like they tried to make their way up to the sunkissed nebula on his shoulders but didn't quite make it, the poor things. 

They are quite common with his people and Esca has never paid them much heed. Before. They dust the faces of women and men's forearms and Esca himself has been told he has several on his nose.  
He's never really bothered inspecting it any further. 

He knows that his own skin seems to prefer the larger, darker kind of sun-spots, he's aware he had several scattered across his arms, shoulders and back. His lovers had never hesitated to inform him with wet messy kisses. 

He has not seen much of them on Romans, if any, their sun-gods seemed to have pinched them all equally with their rays.

Except for Marcus.

They're vivid across his olive skin, trying to blend seamlessly but failing to do so.  
It's the surprise that spurs on the genuine interest. It catches him off guard and that's all there is to it and that's what he's going to keep telling himself in the precarious privacy of the slave quarters. 

Esca inhales sharply, feeling dizzy as if the wine just hit him as he stands up, the limewashed wall offering the kind support his own knees deny him. He swallows, gulps down greedily on gusts of air and Marcus turns his head slightly to look at him, curious, reminded of the other's presence all of sudden. 

"You can go, Esca" Marcus says pleasantly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good night"

And a part of Esca wants to run. Run, run and never stop until he runs somewhere where this twisted desire cannot reach him.

He stays. Rooted to the ground like a petrified hare. Though there's nothing even remotely resembling fear in his stance. 

The humour slowly drains from Marcus's face, replaced by genuine concern. Esca just stands there, eyes hooded and black, his aquiline features made sharper by the last of the day's sunrays and Marcus nearly chokes on his own breath as Esca shifts slightly. 

"Esca?" he says cautiously, as he might to a spooked mare, his voice coming out more croaked than he expected, his own throat dry "Esca? Are you alright?" 

Esca moves. Slow, lazy and enviably graceful. A self-assured predator on the prowl. Small, sharp needles of panic start to prickle persistently at the back of Marcus's neck like a sudden sunburn and the breath he draws to calm himself is far from steady. 

A palm, spread open falls gently on his back in the middle of his upper back, between his shoulder-blades, he thinks he can feel Esca's body thrum, his thumb rubbing gentle circles, the calloused skin pressing into the soft tan flesh of his back. It's an effort to keep his eyes from fluttering shut at the touch.

And then his hand slides lower, in a sure strong stroke, down the length of his spine to the small of his back, fingers splayed wide between the two dimples just above the slight curve of his arse, a slow heated torture.

Esca licks his lips. 

"Breac-sheunan" Esca says, voice low, deep and hoarse as he looks dangerously at the strong angle of Marcus's jaw and throat "They're here too" he add softly, barely above a whisper.

"Esca, what---?" Marcus feels his world slowly starting to spin, like a fever coming on.  
The hand on his lower back lifts, caressing him lightly, blunt fingernails teasing with a fluttering kiss goodbye. 

"I wish the Centurion a good night" Esca says infuriatingly, face obscured from view, bowing his head slightly in that incredibly insolent way that only Esca can somehow muster out of a normally perfectly obedient pose.

Marcus stares after him, as he hurriedly exits the room, summoning all his strength not to break into a run.


End file.
